


Lake of Dreams

by oliviacirce



Category: Robin McKinley - Damar series
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:silksieve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacirce/pseuds/oliviacirce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Being a legend is not a comfortable business, you know, but someone has to do it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lake of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thank yous to the hand-holding, beta-reading, angst-supporting, crazy-enabling, cheer-leading team: Aria, Barbara, Bastet, Esther, Gigs, Gillian, Heather, JJ, and Lilith.

He was seventeen when his _kelar_ woke, sharp and brilliant and bright. He had expected it, of course, trained for it, longed for it, doubted it and cursed it. His father had urged patience, and, impatient, he had ridden farther, fought harder, bested his teachers, taken the trials. Something was always lacking, though, something the Meeldtar had promised him, once, in a fleeting glimmer of deep, shadowed gold.

So perhaps it was no surprise, when it finally came pouring out of him like lightning, that his _kelar_ was the strongest anyone had seen in generations.

\-----

"He should go to Luthe," Mathin said. His voice was quiet, and it soothed the burning streaks in Corlath's mind.

Eyes closed, Corlath could see his father frown. "He can't go anywhere like this." He was sitting on the bed, strong arms around his son. "It's taken him badly, I didn't know--"

"No one knew." That was the priest, glittery-bright behind Corlath's eyelids. "There hasn't been anything like this since Aerin's day. Mathin is right, sola, this is not--not the duller blood we are used to, now, I think."

His father sighed. "So?"

"Send him on Isfahel," the priest said, "send him with Gonturan. He is still young enough, and the sword will see him safely there."

Something eased in Corlath's mind, hard red light giving way to a softer blue. "I can ride," he said, and then louder, sitting up, his face spotted with drying tears, "I can ride."

\-----

He went alone, on Isfahel, with Gonturan at his side. Isfahel's feet were sure, and the higher he rode into the mountains, the more his _kelar_ -headache eased. It was unpleasant, finding himself suddenly beholden to abstract needs and unclear visions, and the relief of finally attaining adulthood rapidly gave way to annoyance.

And then, at dusk on the eighth day, he broke out of the dense woodland into a clearing. Set back in the clearing was a great stone building, and just beyond that, glimmering through the trees as the sun set, was the shore of the lake.

Luthe was there, too, as tall and yellow-haired and enigmatic as all the stories said. _He tells you only what he chooses_ , Corlath's father had explained, when Corlath was much smaller, _but everything he says is true._ Corlath swung his legs over Isfahel's side, landing lightly on the unfamiliar ground.

"Come inside," Luthe said, "and we will talk."

\-----

Inside, the long hall was lit with torches, and a merry fire burned warm and bright in the great hearth. In front of the hearth were several large chairs and a long table, and laid out on the table were baskets of potatoes and fish and vegetables and herbs.

"You're earlier than I expected," Luthe remarked, as Corlath surveyed the spread, "so I'm afraid you'll have to help with the stew."

Involuntarily, Corlath laughed. "That's not in any of the legends."

"Even legends have to chop potatoes." He motioned Corlath to one of the chairs and handed him a paring knife.

"That's the trouble with legends." Corlath looked up, surprised, because the voice was a woman's. He had thought Luthe lived alone, but the woman in the doorway looked very much at home. She was tall and broad-shouldered, and moved as though she was accustomed to wearing a sword. He couldn't make out her face behind the shadow of her hooded cloak. "The mundane parts are always left out."

"People don't like to be reminded that heroes _have_ mundane parts," Corlath offered.

The woman laughed. "No, I suppose not. But you'd be surprised: there's not so much difference between dragon-slaying and potato-chopping, in the end." She shut the great door of the hall behind her. "You must be the guest. What is it now, Luthe? Twenty-seven?"

"Thirty-one."

Corlath frowned. "I'm not--my name is Corlath, I'm--"

"I know," she said, putting back her hood. "Welcome, Corlath, my thirty-one-times-great-grandson. Welcome."

\-----

In the end, Aerin chopped the potatoes. Corlath, for all that he was sola, and thrice-over winner of the laprun trials, and cynical about the old stories in the first place, found himself completely incapable of concentrating on the simplest task when face-to-face with Damar's greatest legend. Even if Damar's greatest legend had long, callused hands, and bright eyes, and a gentle, tolerant laugh.

"You are not nearly the least of my children's children, Corlath," she said kindly, handing Luthe a bowl of neatly diced vegetables. "And you are the first to see me so clearly in a very long time."

"I don't--" he began. He had never spoken so haltingly, before coming here. "Why?"

"There has been very little need," Luthe said, stirring the pot on the hearth. "And when possible, Aerin and I prefer to keep to ourselves."

"But my father, and others, have visited you often, and surely someone would have said, if--" He paused. Luthe was looking at him, delicate eyebrows raised. It was a look he'd seen many times before, and practiced himself: _keep up_. "Oh. Yes, I suppose it wouldn't do if--"

"If all of Damar knew that Aerin-sol, Fire-Hair, Dragon-Killer, still lived?" Aerin's voice was sharp, edged with something very dark, and Corlath looked down at Gonturan, resting on the long table, the stone in her hilt glowing bright in Aerin's presence.

"Anyway," she added, "I earned my immortality the hard way." She met Luthe's eyes across the room, and neither of them smiled, and neither of them looked away. "As I have earned my rest. It's no easy thing, being a legend for eternity."

"No," Corlath said, a little faintly, "I can't imagine it would be."

Aerin laughed. "I don't think you will have to _imagine_ for very long."

"What--" _Oh._ "Is that why I--is that why you're showing yourself to me? Am I destined?" It was not a pleasant thought, precisely.

There was a long silence, and then Luthe, almost apologetically, handed him a bowl of stew. "I am afraid," he said, "that the blindfold is part of the deal. We can't teach you; we can't guide you. All we can do is tell you to trust the _kelar_ , when it comes calling, as you have seen, since your headaches abated once you were on the right path." He smiled. "You are not the first to wait too long to answer such a summons."

Corlath set his bowl down, hard, on the table. "Are there no answers?"

"Of course not," Luthe said. "What would be the fun in that? I am an enigmatic mountain oracle, Corlath." He smiled, voice gentling at Corlath's obvious distress. "Heroism--and heroineism, in this case, I think, for Gonturan is crying out to be worn again--is a series of blindfolds. All you can do is trust your instinct, or your _kelar's_ instinct, and your visions, and remember that the Lake of Dreams is here, when you need it."

Aerin ran a hand along Gonturan's blade, "I think I will ride with you, for a time," she said. "Or perhaps--not with _you._ As Luthe says, Gonturan longs to fight again, and I think we will both know the bearer."

"I will not speak of you," Corlath said, and it wasn't a question. "Not to--her?"

"Her." Aerin grinned, wide and feral and full of joy. "No, you probably shouldn't. Not the part where I'm alive and well, in any case. It is difficult, bridging immortality and peace, and such things are easily shattered."

"Eat your stew," Luthe said, before Corlath could ask any more questions, "there will be plenty of time, tomorrow. There is always plenty of time, in this place."

\-----

He stayed with Luthe--and with Aerin--for what seemed like several days. He asked more questions but received few answers, though Aerin, when pressed, did tell him what she could of her ancient, legendary battles. Luthe, in turn, told him about the long history of the _kelar_ , though nothing of how to control or channel his Gift.

And on the last day--he knew it was the last, though he could not say how--he stood with Aerin on the shore of the Lake of Dreams, careful lest he set foot in its uncertain waters.

"Why?" he asked, again, at last.

"A question for the ages," she said. "I asked the same thing. But I think you will find--as so many have, and do, and will--that it is a time for heroes once again."

"You were the greatest." He was proud to trace his lineage back to Aerin, Dragon-Killer.

"Only for my time," she said. "As perhaps you will be for yours. Being a legend is not a comfortable business, you know, but someone has to do it. So we do."

Corlath gazed out over the Lake of Dreams for a long time, his hand on the blue stone in Gonturan's hilt, and when he looked back, she was gone.

"A time for heroes," he said, and set off down the mountain.


End file.
